nymph and satyr
by appleschan
Summary: he gets a nymphomaniac patient.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

Today, his coffee is black. There's chili in his breakfast. And he caught Grimmjow screwing a girl in the medical stock room. No big deal. Seriously. Except that she's _his_ girlfriend. And that he's officially single for four lengthy hours.

Today, the birds are singing, the leaves are swaying, and the sun is smiling. Motherfucking literally.

Today, he gets a nymphomaniac for a patient.

"So, it says here, you think people hate you."

"That is correct."

He could talk better, he knows so. He could ask questions better instead of repeating words in her chart like some clueless intern -she probably thinks he's an intern.

Talking to her would be better, _hell lot better_, if her piercing and inquisitive violet eyes aren't sending bolus after bolus after bolus of blood directly to his cock because fuck, she's a turn on.

That, and if the contour of her legs does not function like a target for the male eyes.

Or if she isn't wearing a tight blouse that pops out her smooth cleavage.

Or if her voice doesn't sound stimulating like running a feather in his spine, or has a tingling effect similar to a woman sucking on his chest and neck.

Or if she doesn't have shapely hips that hint that yes, she's extremely _doable_. And pliant.

Or if only she's completely unaware that he's lusting.

He thinks she knows, _oh wrong_, he knows that she knows. The glint in her eyes tells him that this short woman is hard and a bitch, that she made men feel like either the luckiest bastards or the unluckiest.

With one hour to go before his shift ends, he formally starts their session inside this great big gray room.

"Okay, Miss...uh...Kuchiki, is it? How are you?"

* * *

To be continued.

super, super mini, mini side project during weekdays.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality -lol I actually don't know.

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

"_I'm not the first, but I don't really care_."

It's a voice, incessant, ridiculing, careless, it tells her every time, reminds her every time, reduces her every time.

But she continues to do it anyway, being _this_ kind of woman.

It's maladaptive, flawed, brutal, but she has no other direction. It gives her a sense of normality, control, order over her existence. Shameful.

"_That is correct_."

She thinks he's lusting.

She thinks she's right.

Now, in front of him -the therapist- she continues to do what she always does, sit silently and hint lewd things. And it works every time; enticing men wordlessly, effortlessly, flawlessly.

Every man she has been with thinks the same, and she thinks, even the fiery-head therapist thinks, "_I'm not the first, but I don't really care_."

But that's fine because it benefits her, eases her, helps her.

Then she says goodbye to them the next day, unfeeling, uncaring, unwavering.

And yes, she pursues sexual encounter today, with him -the therapist.

* * *

To be continued.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality -lol i actually don't know.

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

+8 hours.

It isn't. _He isn't_. The heated palm clutching her neck –forcing her on her place against the glass wall- isn't gentle and definitely not the covetous bites along the line of her neck, and even the tongue that slides against her skin, hurried yet teasing, making her arch against the glass wall.

Her hand touches the planes of his bare chest, pushing him off her, off the glass -to the bed. But he won't move.

Some people seek the freedom to be chaotic. And she only seeks relief.

He isn't gentle.

She has her rules. But he isn't following them.

She told him she wanted to be on the bed, but he pushed her hard against the glass wall. She said she doesn't want bite marks, but her spine and legs became, not long after, filled with marks. She said she doesn't like being touched on the wrists, but he restrained her and clutched her wrist in deathly grasp on the way to his place.

He's challenging her control.

Because of the things he learned. He's quite insufferable, she begins to think.

The therapist's mouth is just as prodding as his earlier questions. As if he knows and feels things she still hides, or things she makes up to get to him, and tries to coax her into honesty.

She slipped -_almost._ Things, things about her sexually-charged boss, her neighbor who waits for her, and her clashes with a male family member. Tight-lipped things.

He catches her face and holds it firmly between his palms. He's bare above waist, his heart beats fast and loud, and the sound resonates clearly, she hates it.

She eyes him warningly, _I don't want a kiss_.

_Try me_, he smirks. So haughty, so brazenly.

_I am not attracted to you_, she lets him kiss her.

* * *

To be continued.

my bad, i didn't say it's non linear, 300 words, and that i give the uneven dots before the connecting lines.


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality -lol i actually don't know.

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

-8 hours

"How are you?"

"I was hoping you can tell me, Mr. therapist."

He thinks she's made up of layer and layer of lies.

This consultation room is an adjacent of his office, Ms. Kuchiki sits in the large sofa chair opposite him, a small coffee table between them.

"My brother died, he left me everything. I miss him." She says indolently

Ichigo snorts and stands from his swivel chair, and takes off his standard-issue white coat and glasses.

He unbuttons the first two of his buttoned-up shirt as he walks slowly towards her.

Rukia, meanwhile, watches him passively.

The therapist reaches her, pulls the small table and sits on it -in front of her- and clutches the arms of her chair, pulls her closer.

"Yeah, let's cut the bullshit right here." He hisses. Rukia thinks, almost seductively.

"I don't think your brother is dead."

She says nothing.

Expecting no answer from her, he continues, "My dissociative patient thinks he lives in the United States of Britain, I let him, I even asked for a one way ticket -and hey, I fucking got one. One psycho-manic patient started a kiddy fight club, sure, I cheered. And they regularly give me a supply of homemade candies. Another is a recovering crackhead who goes to Sunday service but that's fucking bullshit because he really just visits his unicorn friends over the cotton candy rainbow. See?"

"Being fucked up is normal here. You go to someone because you're mentally fucked-up. And damn, that's how we earn money."

Wrong. Everything about this therapist is wrong, she ponders.

"No, we don't pretend with shit here."

His face is too close, Rukia shifts uncomfortably.

"So, let me ask again, _how are you_?" Tell me your story. Real.

However, she meets his eyes, challenging him.

"_I was hoping you can tell me, Mr. therapist_."

Ichigo simply sighs, then looks down at her smooth legs. He sighs again, then looks at her.

"Right, let me tell you your plans; you go here, ask for a shrink, seduce the shrink, fuck the shrink, then walk out."

Ms. Kuchiki remains silent.

"I guess everything is working according to plan, so I'll say yes, you are feeling pretty fucking fine."

* * *

To be continued.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality -lol i actually don't know.

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

"Listen to me," He says, his hands travel from the armchair to her shoulder -she doesn't flinch upon contact- then to the back of her neck, forcing her to look straight to his eyes.

The therapist, to her, is a composite of several, disorganized stimulus. Things she can't specifically point yet, but there is something in his stance, the angular lines of his face, and the guttural undertones of his voice.

"None of my patients left this place with their screws still fucking loose. Those three motherfuckers live normal lives now -at least, in a way. It took me time and immersion. But they were honest, and I understood their habits."

Then he smiles, "You won't tell me anything." He lightly brushes his thumb over her lips.

He thinks she's a deep well of lies and secrets, that it needs deep, deep, deep exploration to get to her core. And that he can't accomplish it with the usual ways.

"Limit all your sexual partners to _just me_."

Ms. Kuchiki blinks, but says nothing. However, he sees the visible pursing of her lips and a flicker of something on her eyes.

She thinks she likes his boldness.

"Limit all your sexual partners to me and then we can sort out all your fucking problems."

* * *

To be continued.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: sexuality -lol i actually don't know.

Warning: M. OOC.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

\+ 8 hours

Ms. Kuchiki's hands hurriedly slide down Ichigo's sculpted chest and abdomen down to his narrow hips to reach for his belt, sparing no time to feel his heated skin or his contracting muscles.

But he restrains her, grabs both of her wrists with one hand and puts them above her head.

He pins her, pressing himself hard on her hips, making her moan in his lips. Of delight, or annoyance, or both -he couldn't tell exactly.

He pauses, then breaks the kiss, leaving Ms. Kuchiki breathless.

She glares up at him.

He looks down at her.

Behind her, the city night light flickers. It's dark in his room and the air is heavy with her scent.

Looking ahead, he sees the occupant opposite his building floor giving him thumbs up before closing the curtain, his response is a single lift of his middle finger.

Looking down, he sees that she doesn't seem distracted. Instead of kissing him, she decides to do something else. Her fingers slowly reach for his hair, bringing him closer, she lightly nips on his neck, prompting a massive burst of tingling in his spine.

Distracting him with her lips in his neck lightly suckling and nipping, she reaches for his belt once again.

But the therapist stops her hand yet again.

Then he hears her groan angrily.

Instead, he tilts her head and kisses her hard again, grinding his body really hard against her soft and pliant one.

He gets more aggressive this time, he exposes and palms her breasts, her fingers rack his head painfully, pulling on his hair, _hurry, hurry, hurry_.

But then, the therapist suddenly breaks away.

Ms. Kuchiki stands there, tousled and confused. A mess.

Ichigo -still half-naked- folds his arms over his chest and tells her. "You think I volunteered to be your partner _just_ for _fuck's sake_. _Literally_?"

This is exactly where he wants her to be. Confused and denied.

Her reaction to everything is fucking. Constantly denying it to her pushes her to her limits.

Ms. Kuchiki looks at him balefully.

"_You are frustrating_." her first words of the night. "What do you really want?"

* * *

To be continued.

yay. it's my bday.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole -not a pun.

Warning: M. OOC. Disturbance.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

-3 months

She tells herself this is nothing more than a dinner.

"_Rukia_,"

This is a dinner between Ms. Kuchiki and her brother.

His presence is like a choke hold around the neck, tight. His commands are like chains tethered to a mechanical puppet, pulling and forcing.

Ms. Kuchiki sits back quietly, in front of her brother, waiting for their meal. This is a posh restaurant. And they have the best reservation -the most concealed one. Just the two of them.

Her brother is wealthy. Downright cliché. Excessively handsome. Banal.

Coming from Heathrow to Haneda, he insisted on seeing her almost immediately. She responds automatically -like the mechanical puppet.

Tonight is one of those nights.

* * *

present.

"You fucked your brother, too?" The therapist asks.

He, with wild orange hair and impressive physique, leans at the glass wall, beside her holding her hands; if she tells him something, he'll fuck her. Ridiculous.

"So?" He tries to reaffirm.

Oddly, when the therapist speaks, he does not sound condescending.

Ms. Kuchiki feels slightly at ease.

* * *

To be continued.

(ツ)


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole -not a pun.

Warning: m. ooc. language. disturbance.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

-3 months

Ichigo is not the man who has a flashy Koenigsegg or even 'on-call bitches.'

Grimmjow has. The motherfucking son of the owner of the institution he's working for. The institution where he's working the job that pays everything -all of it- his apartment, his average car, his bills and funds for his girlfriend's dream of opening a patisserie.

His girlfriend is a nurse -psychiatric nurse. She's pretty good at her job because male patients _collectively_ say she's so good, so kind, and so perfect that even Grimmjow wants to fuck her. And he isn't covert over his intentions. Of course, Ichigo felt the need to be protective.

So Ichigo stares him down –man to man- whenever he meets him in the hallway, in the parking lot or even in meetings. They clash often –again, man to man- that resulted to numerous bloody brawls, broken jaws, arms and ER trips.

But his girlfriend still prefers him over the fucking asshole and his blatant display of money and sexual prowess. And that his girlfriend is completely oblivious to his bold advances –or doesn't care, because always, as in every time, her attention is always unto him, listening and caring for him. Grimmjow is just a stupid pest.

_That's good_, Ichigo settles with the idea; he can sleep with the thought knowing she loves –likes deeply, really attracted to- him because he kinda wants to settle down with her, hold her hands forever and grow old with her.

* * *

present.

Ichigo, usually, succeeds in separating work from personal matters.

So far, from his office to his apartment where he brought Ms. Kuchiki, he's succeeding. _He thinks_.

But then he wonders, despite his earlier thoughts, is offering her such a treatment really for her own good and simply the result of his abrasive style or because he broke up with his girlfriend –almost fiance- on the same day and Ms. Kuchiki presents a perfect opportunity to ease his lost?

* * *

To be continued.

this story's first paragraph.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole -not a pun.

Warning: m. ooc. language. disturbance.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

present.

The minuscule cracks, the small tremors, the breaks in her face –she thinks she can hide all of it.

And her brother, _The Brother_, he thinks he'll meet him soon.

Somehow, before asking her, he already knows the answer.

"_So_?"

She shakes her head, no.

_Yes_.

She's honest –not her words; he could tell he'll deal with loads of bullshit coming from her pretty mouth in the next months. Her eyes tell him otherwise.

But he got what he wanted to know and he's determined to uphold his 'one answer: one fuck' rule.

From his position –sitting beside her leaning against his glass pane- he scoops her up easily and guides her towards the bed parallel to his glass walls.

He lies on his back, and puts her on top of him.

"Okay," he pauses and brings her face closer, whispers softly against her lips.

"You can fuck me now."

* * *

To be continued.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole -not a pun.

Warning: m. ooc. language. graphic. disturbance.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

present.

What is a better fuck?

Having Ms. Kuchiki's mouth on his cock is a very, very tempting answer.

Ms. Kuchiki has been very quiet.

_Indeed_.

She wordlessly takes his palms off her face, and then before he knows what's happening, she takes charge of his body –rips his pants off and positions herself over his loins.

"Wha-t?"

She looks at him before holding his cock with both of her small hands and taking it to her mouth –never taking her eyes of him, reminding him of something.

His breath hitches then an involuntary choke escapes him when her pink lips fully enclose his girth.

He sits upward at the motion and a sudden, drawn-out moan comes out of his mouth when she sucks him particularly hard and aggressive but then would become slow as if to let him catch a breath.

"_Shit_," he squirms.

Her finger nails graze his thighs keeping him in place as she suck him.

Strangely, for a petite woman, she can hold him down extraordinarily easy.

She sucks his massive erection so skillfully it is him whose stomach clenches violently in anticipation of a mind-numbing release; it is him who clenches his bed sheet because her mouth –oh fuck, her fucking warm mouth- takes him to another level of high as he feels her wet and warm tongue slither around his cock and suck him firmly alternating between gentleness and roughness.

He grunts uncontrollably in succession –manly, deep and husky- a harsh gurgle at the back of his throat, the sound of a male deep in the middle of heat.

His fingers lock on her hair, as if he'd do anything else, and urges her to swallow him deeper. He begins to thrust his hips upwards to meet her mouth.

Fuck. He thinks it is him who would have her squirming beneath him.

He holds her head roughly as she goes faster and faster and faster until his stomach tightens and he could feel his release coming.

The line between him and her as his patient _may be blurring_ as he reaches his height.

But she suddenly stops and glares at him, his hard cock still in her mouth.

_I haven't fucked you yet_. Ms. Kuchiki seems to tell him.

Fuck, he wants to strangle this little nymph.

"Why did you fucking stop?" he grits out hoarsely, looking at her through his half-lidded eyes. Sweat breaking out all over his naked body and his breathing is taking a fatal turn.

He watches her slides her mouth out of his cock. Licking her lips –Ichigo stares at her hungrily- she orders him, "Take your hands off my hair."

"What?"

She frowns at him_. I'm going to fuck you on my own terms_.

He blinks twice before releasing her head reluctantly.

_Damn_. He understands that look. He remembers her need for control; her fucking _rules_.

Maybe he'll give her _this_ after being so _rudely_ _persuasive and controlling_ with his _psycho-therapeutic_ _method_.

But just this one.

"Fine," he breathes. Another delay and he would fucking beg her; his cock is practically begging her.

He sees something flicker in her eyes when he lets go of her, and before she could return her mouth over his cock, he weaves his fingers on her hair, pulls her roughly and smashes his lips against hers aggressively without a word –he also remembers how she doesn't want him to kiss her.

* * *

to be continued

i'm evil. (✿◠‿◠)


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole -not a pun.

Warning: m. ooc. language. graphic. disturbance.

nymph and satyr

_appleschan_

* * *

present.

Ichigo _can_ kiss like a madman.

She thinks he can surely fuck like a madman too –crazed, hungry and powerful.

Too powerful –too much, too forceful. He has one hand at the back of her head, his finger nails pulling hard on her scalp while he mashes their lips hard, not kissing, not tasting, not exploring, nothing remotely similar, just a pure show of dominance.

She couldn't breathe and his mouth muffles her moans very effectively. And he does not loosen his vice-like hold on her hair. Ms. Kuchiki grates his shoulders instead, dragging her fingernails in his skin as deeply as possible, drawing blood as much as possible and hoping it would somehow deter him. She does not like being kissed.

And when her lips escape his even for a moment to simply breathe, _he's merciless_, he captures her easily and hungrily kisses, no, _devours_, her back harder.

His other hand –she doesn't know where.

She feels sharp tugging on her shoulder and front and before she knew it, he successfully _ripped_ her white buttoned-up shirt completely at the front. _Oh_. Using the same hand, he plays, again, with one of her breasts, kneading and pulling too roughly.

She lets go of his shoulder and focuses on his neck instead, she tries to scratch at his throat viciously, _anything_, just to make him stop kissing her.

It must have been a good idea because the therapist lets go of her lips –she catches her breath- only to grasp both of her wrists _then_ kisses her again –to her dismay.

The therapist shifted position with her; he smothers her on the bed now, presses his cock hard on her thighs, eliciting an unwarranted low _angry_ moan from her. Anger that came from being overcome _too_ easily.

His weight though, is crushing her, but he does nothing to remedy it.

Her hands that he caught, he put them above her.

And when both are safely secured in his grasps, he stops kissing her.

Ms. Kuchiki looks confused. Strange it is, minutes ago, she had him completely putty in her hands –literally.

"I thought I'd let you know." He whispers, his voice is strangely huskier than usual. _That it's only because I'm letting you have some. _

Before Ms. Kuchiki could understand what he's referring to, he flips her roughly -her front hits his mattress. He keeps her face down while his other hand violently tears down what's left of her buttoned-up white shirt; he wrecks it all until the smooth skin of her back is bare to his eyes.

Then he straddles her.

He holds her at the back of her neck with enough force to keep her from raising her head from the mattress but not too painful.

_I'm going to fuck you on my own terms. _He snorts at the idea. Oh please, motherfucker, oh please.

Minutes ago, he _did_ consider the idea but there is something _stimulating_ by the way Ms. Kuchiki –the control nymph bitch- stares at him from that position; rattled, tousled and _beneath him_. This is a power-struggle, after all.

"Ms. Kuchiki," he starts quietly.

He lets go of his tight hold on her neck and lowers his naked body on hers.

Ms. Kuchiki flinches when she feels the therapist's impossibly fit body glides along her back.

There's a sharp intake of breath when his broad chest settles warmly on her back, and his lips found her hairline and neck –giving her warm and light kisses making her arch her back almost automatically, the feeling is surprisingly electrifying.

"How many have you fucked?" He whispers against her cheek, and then buries his head deeper to suck on her neck.

* * *

to be continued

i'm an angel next update.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole –not a pun.

Warning: M. OOC. pf ref. language. lemon.

_*chapter withdrawn. possibly wrong file. app not syncing. dunno which device i saved the correct version, i had to check first._

**nymph and satyr**

_appleschan_

* * *

present.

Just like she imagined, he's strong and fast and ruthless and unforgiving like how passionate rock stars and bad motherfuckers are.

"We are still in session, Ms. Kuchiki," he reminds her as he finally kicked his pants away and his hardened dick rests painfully just above the slope of her still clothed ass, "and it's therapeutic," then he goes back to the smooth skin of her neck to riddle it with marks.

Oh, he doesn't forget she stopped sucking his dick when he's about to come –what an evil little nymph bitch.

Ms. Kuchiki's body is pressed hard on his mattress that she's barely able to move her arms, and she can't move her lower limbs as he's hovering above her and he's not hesitant to show her he's looking forward into doing her.

From a tight hold around her neck forcing her down, Ichigo retracts his hand slowly and traces her back, encircles and again, plays with her breasts and massages it, tweaks her nipples –he hears an involuntary whimper from her lips and hell yes. His other hand, he brings it down to fondle her sides and arms and trace her supple curves –and she moans louder and arches her back and pushes her ass back up to him and oh fucking shit-

This little nymph is asking for his dick to ram her hard, really. But-

"Answer," he cajoles her in between breaths referring to his previous question how many have you fucked, while alternating between roughly and softly kneading her breast and sucking hard at her nape and yet another moan escapes from her lips. He thinks he likes her lips best, even if she doesn't like kissing.

-he's still working.

"Ahh, goddamn." He breathes against her skin, still waiting for her answer.

When he lifts his head slightly from sucking hard on her nape, he swears there's a trace of smirk on her lips but gone just as quickly replaced by a somewhat cloudy stare. This, of course, he'll reserve, he'll ponder later, whatever that small smirk means.

He lightly raised himself up, to see her again, beneath him, because this proves his position over her and it is turning him on.

"Answer," he leans down again and kisses her cheek lightly.

She doesn't.

"Bitch."

She doesn't answer though; she maintains that cloudy stare at him and he thinks, what a fucking complex woman –that he couldn't quite follow what she wants. But then, this is the purpose of this.

Lying there front down face to the side, dreamy or confused (he doesn't know) moans if touched intimately but hates being kissed, half-naked and –what the fuck? Half-naked? All these and yet, she still has her skirt still around her hips?

"Fucking-" he hisses as he forgot to tear her skirt apart. And it does matter, because his dick is probably weeping, and he should have already played with her entrance, too, and the first rule of executing a procedure is to prepare all the materials beforehand, "-skirt." And that he missed the detail.

He gets out of the bed, from hovering above her, fully naked, and he feels a strong and potent form of male bravado as Ms. Kuchiki looks at him, at his ripped body, at his dick as he walks around her, proud as fuck, motherfucking alpha male.

He properly pulls her position into supine and her eyes met his squarely. Her hair strewn across his sheets, her front completely bared until her waist where the buttons of her skirt are, her breasts -not too large- are perky with pink nipples, her skin is a stark contrast to his black sheets. She's small and petite and certainly fuckable. She feels no shame looking up at him, matching his gaze. There is something blood-rushing about the way she lays in his bed.

Strangely, he thinks, she's been docile after he held her down and he doesn't know why, still, he doesn't know what's going on in her mind.

And he doesn't know what she thinks of him, but he thinks Ms. Kuchiki –this bitch is fucking beautiful.

He leans down, kisses the top of her head and traces her breast to her sides until he grabs the top of her skirt around her waist, "this skirt," he holds it firmly then pulls down the fabric, "has to go."

This, of course, met another of-sort reaction from Ms. Kuchiki. After as he pulls down her skirt, she props herself using her elbow and places her right foot on his shoulder and slowly drags it down to his chest as if teasing him she doesn't smile at all, it's hard, no smirk, she lets her eyes talk. It's like teasing him to come fuck me now but at the same time, as if saying, butyou can't. He snorts and catches her foot as it reaches his abdomen and keeps it immobile –oh, she's wearing black lacy panties, "I don't understand you, woman –Ms. Kuchiki."

Ms. Kuchiki stares at him, oddly yet again, she doesn't look flirty or mischievous or a high-class escort, the way she stares at him (tiger look when he's about to kiss her) is like (he figures, it's the best to describe her current façade) she's challenging him. Of course, of course, it's a power struggle.

"3," Ms. Kuchiki says breathlessly.

His eyebrows arch then he smirks, understanding she just answered his question.

"I don't believe you." He says, tilting his head.

"Believe it," she insists. She un-props herself and he watches her writhe seductively in his bed right in front of him and her hands clutching his bed sheet and quietly moaning –and his body tensing hard, he knows she's trying to manipulate him or his dick, and she's succeeding and he feels he's breathing is starting to become hard and he thinks, what the fuck is he doing here standing like a fucking useless lump?

Rukia thinks she's close to get what she wants and then she can leave this contemptible orange-haired monkey-psychiatrist's lair.

"Right," he scoffs in defiance. With her right foot still held by him in one hand, he kneels down, careful to look at her in the eyes. He puts her other leg to rest against his shoulder and pulls her lithe body towards him, his face, right where it should be, positioned nicely to fuck her with his tongue.

Yet, that's not all what he has in mind, "Are you lying?" he teases, kisses her inner thigh, dragging his tongue across her soft skin and takes a short, quick poke at her clothed entrance –and damp it is- using his right hand.

"Ahh," she breathes out quietly, arching her back, "no," this man is terribly insufferable, too, teasing her with her panties still on. Rukia tugs at her panties, which, became a hindrance, take it off, take it off –but he pushes her hand away. She presses her lips together, fuck this man.

Ichigo takes-in his effect, ahh, very good, she didn't like long drawn-out foreplay, right there, his head in between her legs, being skillful with his hands. This, of course, is his advantage, "Are you lying?" he asks again as he palms her through her lace-clothed entrance hard then inserts two of his fingers inside the lace to caress her smooth folds –just her folds, and that it's drenched. And he likes it.

"No." she answers breathlessly yet again.

"Ms. Kuchiki, we'll keep on doing this until you admit it," he takes a lap at her entrance, a short, quick stroke of his tongue, she taste like snow and honey.

Another, "Are you lying?" and double stroke of his tongue and it's like he's electrifying her. She grips his hair out of frustration or excitement or annoyance, he is incredibly, incredibly good.

"No!" there is some sort of sadistic pleasure seeing Ms. Kuchiki tries hard to cover her pained expression.

"Then," it all boils down to this, "who are these 3?" he asks finally.

Her eyes flash and he knows he found a loophole –whether true or not, he'll exploit it viciously. Who are these 3, indeed.

Alarmingly so, he senses the change in her and he has a brief flash of her thinking of fleeing him. But before she could move an inch, he lets go of her thighs and catches her hands, keeping them together and then, literally rips her lace panties off using his teeth.

She cries out as the strings snap and her cry is cut midway as he pushes his tongue deeply inside her and mercilessly lap at her wetness and inner folds. She writhes helplessly beneath this man's mouth, her hips moving in disarray, this man, oh this man.

As for Ichigo, he traces her folds skillfully and deliberately, liking it that each stroke of his tongue produces a nerve-wrecking reaction from her. He keeps her wrists in tight grasp as he deepens his exploration. He reaches her clitoris, swirling his tongue madly, and making her body convulse. Her cries alternate between moans and shouts and this man is just hateful. He keeps his tongue movements, licking the smooth and sensitive muscle and bringing Ms. Kuchiki higher and higher and higher-

But he suddenly rises, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, having licked the last of her drops, smirking at her. This leaves her panting hard and shocked and unsatisfied. He rises, with that wolfish and triumphant grin, and she so hates it, so so hates it. He leaves her in this state. A man overcame her.

He rises and comes to lie beside her, sighing. She couldn't keep her eyes of him, he's hateful as much as he is attractive as much as he is irresistible.

He still has that smirk when he turns to her, "you can leave if you want." One raised eyebrow, a lopsided smirk while stroking his hardened dick slowly. This is a pointless statement. There's no way he's letting her leave after that and there's no way she's leaving.

Oh this hateful, hateful man!

Ms. Kuchiki lies there, spent and throbbing, and not quite satisfied.

Ichigo lies there breathing hard and in a way, pleased; he's quite sure he riled the woman so much that she wouldn't leave him –at least, not this way.

"Remember you did that to me a few minutes ago," he says, gleeful –when she stopped sucking his dick. Yeah payback, bitch.

She just stares at him, annoyed, oh this hateful, hateful man.

"You can leave if you want…" he repeats, enjoying its effect on her, stretching out his arms and watching her stand from her position and glares at him, "that's what you were trying to do a little while ag-"

He's cut off as Ms. Kcuhiki punches him, then straddles his hips then kisses him in the lips hard.

She claws at his chest and shoulder, oh this hateful man, hoping to draw more blood than what she did in his neck, oh this hateful man.

She could feel him smirking at her lips and he makes no move to stop her from clawing him, he puts his hands on her hips and gropes her. He kisses her back just as much and possibly harder, he's getting a reaction out of Ms. Kuchiki and this is exactly what he's aiming for.

Goddamn it, he thinks when he feels her rub herself on him, and his dick screams madly for her.

"You were holding my hair," she stops to tell him, "I said I don't like it."

"Sorry, then," he pushes her head to him to kiss her again. Husky and turned-on. Goddamn. It's better when she's cooperative, as Ms. Kuchiki's tongue seeks his out aggressively and he can taste her lip gloss.

She straddles him, on his narrow hips.

"Tell me," she whispers in his lips, quiet and dangerous and sensual, her violet eyes so bright, so so bright, "who's fucking who?"

Ichigo lowers her lips to his once more, nipping her lower lip, smelling her jasmine scent, closes his eyes briefly, his hand on her back, feeling her breasts flat on his chest, feeling her curves against him, he says, "you," then opens his eyes, "fuck me," he tells her.

"Fuck me," he repeats.

Ms. Kuchiki kisses his lips softly, then trails his neck, she licks the wounds she inflicted. "Fuck me, Ms. Kuchiki," he tells her, fisting her hair and just feeling her soft lips against the lines of his neck and collarbone, and his dick standing in full attention.

She kisses like a fairy, light and airy and leaves him light headed and dazed and she's fucking pretty and never mind she punched him and all he can think about is his dick so so hard for her. Ms. Kuchiki nails were no longer clawing at him, she soothes his heaving chest with her light fingertips and fuck him for thinking he's a motherfucking alpha male when he so easily crumbles against her.

This is the nymph, somewhere at the back of his mind, this is the nymph.

"Oh-!" Ms. Kuchiki has a talented mouth, "-shit!" really, really. She doesn't even need to pin him, he'll lie here and let her. Her mouth circles his nipple and it's this good, "ahh, fuck!"

Kurosaki Ichigo isn't a screamer.

She moves lower and reaches his abs, which, constricted and ripped at the contact. He raises himself slowly and watches her while she herself watches him. Goddamn, those violet eyes. And he feels himself throbbing intensely, almost coming, anticipating any, any contact. She gets lower, down to his narrow hips when he feels her hand grips his dick, then he moans out loud involuntarily, masculine like the one he released a little more early when her lips first touched his dick. She strokes it slowly while looking at him straight, he thinks its torture.

"Ms. Kuchiki," his mouth runs dry as she puts him in her warm mouth one more time, the girth perfect for her, and looks at him while sucking him slowly, "ahh," he thinks it's definitely torture.

She's finished but he's not and he wants to complain and it's becoming an unhealthy habit between the two of them and he wants to continue to bob her head up and down and he would but she smiles at him, a rare one, and so sudden too that it caught him off-guard and before he knows it, she's back at his lips and mimicking his earlier movements and pushing him down, her small palms on his cheeks, her lips softly teasing his lips.

"I will fuck you slowly," she tells him softly, her palms shift to pull on his orange hair.

"Sure," he's helpless and he knows it and she knows it.

He lies down and with Ms. Kuchiki straddling his hips, her palms flat on his chest, and his hands groping her round ass, he never felt manlier before –goddamn it.

Ms. Kuchiki needs no help, and easily eases herself down to his dick, leisurely and expertly and she makes no pained expression at accommodating his girth and length, she's moaning and breathless and it's perfect. And he's convulsing while entering her tight entrance slowly, he bit his lips, keeping that humiliating yelp from her.

She stays on top of him, moving her hips slowly, twisting her body teasingly, arching her back to make him deeper, fucking him slowly because she thinks he's the kind of man who's used to carnal fuck marathon.

His body is broad and ripped and he lets her ride him slowly on his own bed. He thinks she's just alluring, all naked and sweating. And he grunts, long and drawn out, and she's tight and slick. And his grip on her ass turns into kneading as he urges her to go faster-

-and she shush-es him.

Ms. Kuchiki does not look down on him, yet she clutches his shoulders hard and runs her palms in his chest and abdomen as she –so it would seem- pleasures herself.

So he watches her carefully, yet at the same time, enjoys her body, riding him in different pace and sees the different expressions on her face.

He clutches her hips and thrusts upward, once, the she lets him, he does it again in quick succession, embedding himself deeply, bringing their pelvis together, and Ms. Kuchiki looks down at him, her eyes flashing warningly.

"Just lie there," she says quietly, closing her eyes, pulling her head back, and continues to twist her body, make those provocative movements and huff delightfully, enjoying his body.

Never, thinks Ichigo. Never a woman who is familiar to his bed told him to just lie there.

Nevertheless, he does what he is told, and lies there, hopelessly looking at her, at her perky breasts moving in enticingly, at her hips, and at his dick going in and out of her. He looks at her like he's in a trance.

He feels Ms. Kuchiki tightens, and he knows she's close. He thinks of kissing her, but does not.

He watches as she moves deliriously, throws her head back, his toes curling in the sight, he feels his own impending convulsion. He puts his hands on her hips, and holds her in place, and thrusts again to reach his own just as he hears as a low, satisfied and incredibly mind-numbing moan escapes her lips.

It's the last thrust, and he comes and he thinks Ms. Kuchiki is the prettiest nymph forever and ever and ever and ever.

He comes hard, but not quite.

"You didn't meet Grimmjow, did you? That little shit is always parading his metal dick, really," he says, "he fucked my ex with it today-" 30 minutes after she fucked him, with a coffee in one hand, he tells her.

"I do not-"

The man glances at his square clock, noticing it is past 12 and quickly amends himself, "-yesterday."

"-care," she states. She truly doesn't and need not to explain herself.

While buttoning herself up (she bought a spare set of clothes, it's always a standard), she hears a soft click and sees her shadow looming before her, he opened a lamp.

"Hey," he calls, "thanks." Then she hears rustling of papers.

But she doesn't spare him a glance. She doesn't even care how odd he sounded, thanking her. She doesn't want to stay longer. She'll say no more and just go.

Ms. Kuchiki gets up-

"Thanks for coming," He continues.

Ms. Kuchiki ignores him and the smug tone in his voice and heads straight to the door-

"I finally got your diagnosis, Ms. Kuchiki," Mr. Kurosaki says louder when she's at the door, "wouldn't you like to hear it?"

She looks back at him to see him wearing (still) nothing but his black-framed eyeglasses, standing there beside the lamp holding a (she squints her eyes) pen and an opened patient's chart which she guesses to be hers.

"This is a diagnostic procedure." _Yeah, you fucking me. _

Oddly, he smiles at her (the kind and pleasant and welcoming psychiatrist type) and she thinks he's entirely unconvincing with that full frontal nudity and raging hard-on and ruffled bright orange hair.

"You think you're the one manipulating me?"

She looks away. Idiot. She opens the door but not before hearing him say-

"Fine. Breakfast later then." It isn't a question.

–then shuts the door, severely uninterested, he does think she'll take him and whatever he says seriously.

* * *

to be continued

edit. 01.19.15 oh, so this is the correct version after all.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole –not a pun.

Warning: M. OOC. language.

**nymph and satyr**

_appleschan_

* * *

Ichigo wakes up –the bed sheets are ruffled. Outside sky is smoky gray. It's 9 am. And he grins like overnight the world just fucking reconfigured itself. Ms. Kuchiki is god damned.

He gets out of bed –he has a breakfast to catch up to.

(he does not forget his patient's chart and the details in it that tell him Ms. Kuchiki lives nearby)

.

The servers of the membership café in the ground floor of the posh building where Ms. Kuchiki lives know what and how and when to serve her during breakfast.

She steps inside at exactly ten thirteen. At ten fifteen, they serve her Americano with almond cream (and the barista is careful with the temperature and the flavoring and Ms. Kuchiki is severely particular) and eggs benedict. They focus on her for the next twenty minutes or _be axed_ because her family owns this building.

What servers do expect is that Ms. Kuchiki never dines with anyone else. What they don't expect is that some man with bright hair just marches to her table boldly at the veranda of the café.

.

"Don't look at other men," her therapist whispers, he comes from behind her, standing behind her sitting form, sliding his right palm on her throat and bending her neck slightly backwards to look at him.

"I wasn't," she answers, her back arched gracefully, a terrible strain on her neck and legs, but she lets him.

Dr. Kurosaki has this, this annoying air in him, she thinks. He is dreadfully handsome, she has used his body, a man with huge ego, and rugged charisma that is skyrocketing –and she's done with him. So she wonders, with quickly interlacing annoyance and intrigue, what does he want still?

"I have asked my assistant to take care of your fee," she says softly, and he feels the movement on her throat, then his eyes, from her red lips, slips to the perky lines of her cleavage and red bra –he swallows.

Glancing right, to the curious servers and visitors, he lets go of her and drags a chair in front of her.

He gestures to one server, and he sees Ms. Kuchiki nods to their direction.

Kurosaki does not wear a tie, he sits casually in front of her.

She resumes her eating, painfully slow, too, and unfailing in holding his gaze.

Ms. Kuchiki looks just like a daydream, business and sex and kittens.

After his coffee is served, Ms. Kuchiki watches him casually unbutton some of his upper buttons and shows her some parts of his chest and neck where her bite marks and scratches are plenty, then he smirks of course.

From his coat, he gets folded pieces of paper and flings it across the small round table, to her.

"So, wanna hear your diagnosis?"

.

.

.

.

.

(a while later)

("I told you we can fuck in the car like some stupid teenagers," she hears him, and his voice echoes.

He grasps Ms. Kuchiki's hips and pushes his dick deeper, and he bends over to kiss her shoulder and back. His car is cramped, but this will do.)

* * *

to be continued


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. I make no profit.

Theme: down the rabbit hole –not a pun.

Warning: M. OOC. language.

**nymph and satyr**

_appleschan_

* * *

Dr. Kurosaki makes correct conjectures: correct psychotherapy, correct personality disorder, correct anxiolytic and correct assumptions.

"You're not wearing panties, are you?"

He feels Ms. Kuchiki shifts her legs beneath the table. _Of_ _course_.

"So, wanna hear your diagnosis?"

She takes a sip of her coffee, slowly so, and without taking her eyes off him. "No," she answers quietly, like glass, like ice, so cold, her red lips making no stain whatsoever on the white coffee cup, "I do not have a condition. I do not need your diagnosis."

Ichigo's head tilts to the side, half-amused and half-annoyed. Then his hand reaches for the folded paper between them, "all right," he says then takes the paper and puts it back in his coat.

She eyes him warily, the well-built and unconventional therapist, but doesn't comment. She expects him to smirk haughtily, tell her how his diagnosis is accurate and force it on her.

"You aren't ready," he says coolly, "it's fine by me, you know," he takes a swig of his coffee, "_denial_, as part of the process, is real and unavoidable. I accept that."

Then another, "I'm not gonna force it in your throat," then he stops and smirks and remembers something else, "-well, my dick is a completely different thing. Right, so I'd let the process run smoothly, not gonna give you whatever meds, or subject you to support groups, shit no-"

"Details of your work do not interest me," Ms. Kuchiki says suddenly, putting down her fork and looking at him straight.

"Oh?" Hard, hard bitch, this nymph is.

"So what interests you?" he challenges.

"Why are you here? I said I paid your fees already, and I do not want to hear your diagnosis," she counters, ignoring his question, "surely, you expect no more."

"Well, I am immersive. You will see me everywhere," he answers, so so sure, "I always give a hundred percent to my clients –patients- you know. Like, _I'll breathe the same air you do_."

"And don't say that, I feel like a cheap prostitute," he continues with an unrestrained laugh, getting glances from all over the room, she thinks he looks more boyish when he laughs.

But she stays passive and reserved and cold.

He knows she wants to lash at him then leave. He's pushing her and fuck, he feels good. He leans back and gets a good look at her. Ms. Kuchiki is all business here, probably some manager, or an exec at a bank or realty or a multinational company whatsoever, he thinks, she's really, really beautiful.

Ms. Kuchiki, he observes, like last night, is never fully naked –not just the physical, _she's never naked._ Pretty and perfect outside, and sensual as hell, with a vast family background (he assumes) and dresses sophisticatedly (that tells onlookers quite boldly, _come fuck me if you can_). Glossy and lustrous outside, but never fully naked.

(like the lines of her waist and the slope of her breast and the way she fucks like she dances hint a secret, oh he knows so)

"Let's try that again, _so what interests you_?" he leans closer: _look at me_.

Ms. Kuchiki does not answer immediately, as she arranges her cutlery neatly beside the emptied plate. Ah, Ichigo thinks, bothersome manners.

"I have to go," she says, evading his question. (And on cue, one of the male servers comes smiling bringing her a silver tray for her card, and Ichigo scowls, he assumes the fuckers are listening)

"No," Ichigo says to the server, sharp and dismissive, "fuck off."

The server mumbles something Ichigo does not hear (something polite, of course) and sees Ms. Kuchiki tells him to stay and she gives the server her card nonetheless, ignoring him.

"The fuck? We haven't even talked," he hisses and takes her wrist and pins it in the table, "we will talk over breakfast like what I told you hours ago."

She does not answer again. However, she glares, in that cold-snobby-snooty rich bitch way, "_let go_." She wonders, too, that these two words are becoming her most used when it comes to him.

"Why don't you cooperate, Ms. Kuchiki?"

The server returns and places the silver tray in front of her, and asks if there's a problem and that Ms Kuchiki is a priced client and if there's a need for security and some other shit that Ichigo does not care about.

"It's fine," she says to the server, not taking her eyes off Ichigo.

"Should you need any assistance, Ms. Kuchiki-"

"Oh go fuck yourself," Ichigo scowls at the server and before he could spark a fight-

"_It's fine_," she says again, "he'll leave with me."

.

.

.

"Hey!" he shouts at her, at a dimly-lit hallway towards the underground parking. She walks fast, her heels making no noise in the carpeted hallway. So he walks faster, but she gets ahead.

She gets inside her car and locks the doors. He pounds on her windows. (She herself drives a white sleek luxury car he could not name.)

He continues to pound on her windows until she rolls it down a bit –she knows that he might _really_ break it.

"Listen to me, I don't know which part of hell you came from or what poison you carry or who you fucked before me, I can't stop thinking about you-"

Taken aback by the sudden change in his tone and words, she says instead, "I have a case to attend to. Leave." then she rolls up the window, regretting lowering it down in the first place (and thinking how absurd it is), forcing him to withdraw his hand.

"-hey! God-fucking-dammit! Hey!" then she drives away as he, too, hurriedly finds his car (only meters away), comes inside and follows her.

He takes out his phone, and opens a Med-chart app and types his observations (with one hand while the other drives) about Ms. Kuchiki's response to aggression and confrontation: _she averts it_. This, he assumes, probably caused so many unresolved anxieties in her past that made her unable to open up easily and talk, he notes she has a total of 7 responses from the time he sat opposite her, irrelevant and defying answers.

Next, he thinks, he'll do provocation and manipulation. (and that he is as efficient as he is a jerk)

But what he said about being unable to stop thinking about her is true.

Seeing her car disappears in a corner, he asks himself a more important question, is he ready to worship this woman?

.

.

.

-and that Ms. Kuchiki is as frank as a motherfucker.

_An attorney_. No fucking way.

She goes and wins a case: goes to court without panties and wins the case. It is sure as hell not because of her lush ass.

_But what the fuck is that? _ He wonders as he sits in the farthest row –he snuck in.

Her presence in the courtroom is strong, like death (in a fuckable form), like storm clouds over an ocean, like a supernova shattering up in the sky, her bright colors spiraling, holding everyone still and making them pay attention. Such small woman, Ichigo thinks, to hold so much attention.

* * *

to be continued

car lemon in next, next ch.


	15. Chapter 15

disclaimer: i do not own bleach. i make no profit.

theme: down the rabbit hole –not a pun.

warning: m. ooc. language.

**nymph and satyr**

_appleschan_

* * *

He never takes his eyes off her because of wild fascination and mostly because of her tight clothes and um…she's an attorney (it reminds him of how many professional boundaries he had broken since yesterday and that it felt exciting).

She gives him a look that could kill angels (subtly) when she passes along his row and exits the room, he catches her perfume and _fuck, _it's like an epi-shot straight to the dick.

.

.

.

"You are an attorney," comes his first words upon catching up to her.

"Don't you have work today?" comes her easy response, "I've grown tired of seeing you," Ms. Kuchiki, again, heads to the car park, and again, with him in tow. This time however, he keeps up with her.

_Ahh_, "you, Ms. Kuchiki, are my job."

He laughs a little bit, like a growl, at the absurdity of her question. Who was it that first came in his consultation room reeking of sex?

She doesn't answer, but her sharp glare to him communicates enough.

"Yeah, yeah, you can put my ass in jail for harassment or revoke my license, I know. I don't care, I like fucking you," he says so casually, like purposely stating his preference for orange juice over lemon juice in front of a kid in a lemonade stand, offending and out of place.

"How can I get rid of you?"

"Can't."

"_Can_," She says firmly, "I can do everything." He thinks it's the attorney speaking. Outside, she displays this formidable super-fucking-bitch attitude. (he knows that he's supposed to mark this lapses in her attitude)

She stops walking, conveniently in an empty and very bright hallway.

"Are you ready to give me your time?" he says, closing on her, "come back to my place, we can talk a lot," seductively so, of course, of course, he has something else in mind.

She faces him, pretty face still emotionless, "You are very unprofessional."

"Unprofessional?" he repeats, arching his eyebrows, like deeply in thought. He boxes her against the walls.

"Unprofessional, don't you think it's interesting that were both professionals? Some goddamn letters added in our names after years of slugging it out," he answers, removing his hands from his pockets, and clamping them in her waist, feeling her up until his hands rest beneath the slope of her breasts.

Her head hits the wall behind her, eyes open bright again. She does not stop him as he encircles one arm around her torso and uses the other to pop open one of her shirt's buttons, _then_, he trails it down her left leg and wounds it around his hips, and putting his fingers inside her skirt proving that _indeed_ she wears no panties. (she knows what's next)

Smirking, he pushes his fingers farther up in her entrance and using his thumb to play and finger fuck her and continues, "…making us acceptable and respectable, some nice guy living in a nice neighborhood, some polite lady in a nice boutique."

He talks like sex in verbal form, even the husky of his voice is literally stimulating –a thing that she must have not observed (or ignored) from her time with him since yesterday. Rukia feels the familiar hardness of his chest and shoulders and arms as she clings to his body for support as he finger-fucks her. _Fuck this man_, again and again and again.

"But we are dirty and all that shit, we conform to society and shit, we wear ironed clothes and suits," he pauses, and so the speed of his fingers, pausing slightly, giving her a brief break to catch her breath, "but you know, while you're talking right there in the court room, all I'm thinking is fucking your ass, fucking your pussy, fucking your mouth then back to your ass like a fucked-up porn."

She comes in his hand hard, her hands clasp his shoulders tight, legs weak and heart thrums in a way she could not explain, arresting and dangerous, as if half of her body is tied in a railway with an incoming train, and this is with him in a brightly-lit hallway.

"Don't you think that's interesting, you fucking nymph?"

He removes his hand from her and licks his fingers, leering at her.

"If we're less intellectual, more visceral and feral, I tell you we are fucking ugly humans-"

Still clinging to his body, she says, slightly breathless and eyes half-lidded, "Dr. Kurosaki, is that why you're in the psychiatric department-"

"-with the crazy motherfuckers, yeah, haven't I told you that-?"

"-tell me, between us, who really needs diagnosis?" she asks suddenly.

"What?"

His arm is still around her torso, keeping her in place, her lips angled to him like begging to be kissed, "It makes me think, we just met yesterday, yet all your words and gestures-"

But he cuts her off, sensing a different tone from her, his arm tensed around her, "what are you implying?"

Unexpectedly so, he sees her smile, "_denial__, as part of the process, is real and unavoidable. I accept that_." She says, repeating his words from earlier.

"Who really needs diagnosis?"

_That_, he does not answer immediately.

* * *

to be continued


	16. Chapter 16

ooc. language.

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

Kurosaki couldn't bring himself to leave a woman like that. There is struggle and heartbeats are questioned, she breaks away from him.

(in actuality: he breaks away from her)

The fluorescent lights are sharp. The wall behind her is solid and white (and reminds him of specific confinement rooms). Nobody had walked in on them yet.

Ms. Kuchiki has a sharp glare, an almost smile that is smooth and stifling.

"_Who really needs diagnosis_?"

There are little cracks in his face, and Ms. Kuchiki sees them clearly. (little cracks he might not have fully acknowledged yet)

Kurosaki couldn't bring himself to leave a woman like that. But then, "bring himself to" and "a woman like that" are two things, separate and independent of each other, like puzzles pieces belonging to two different frames. Perhaps, before her, there is him.

_Who really needs diagnosis_.

Bitch.

He has no answer.

He has his years to think of: professional and student and family, if he really needs diagnosis; about his fascination to the psychotic and neurotic and mentally-fucked up motherfuckers; about her hips and breasts and he likes it when she fucks him.

(on some days: the thunders echo, the birds take refuge against the wind, one man becomes homeless)

He acts coolly still, plastering a smirk on his face, puts his hands on his pocket –a wrong move, he thinks urgently when her eyes caught him and he remembers movement analysis (_goddamit it's his fucking job_). Thinking fast, he removes his hand from one of his pocket, a ready wrapped gum on his palm.

"_Who really needs diagnosis_?"

He tries to craft her a medically-sound, medically-astounding, medically-convincing answer, but he settles on two brief words:

"_You do_."

Answering very little on a concise question isn't always the best: one can infer so much, while the other can invent a whole load of bullshit and sway, both arriving at no particular conclusion. But it's probably the best in this case.

She tilts her head, and she sighs. She looks at him piercing.

On some days: the evil nymph wins. Her eyes tell him that.

And she walks out first –at least, it's not him.

(but there is really another question here: who really is the evil one between them: about who uses who)

.

.

.

Clubs are disgusting as fuck, no matter how high-end they are. All the same: glitter shit and strobe lights and powders that show how heaven and dreams and dirty orgy are actually possible. It's Friday, and the zombies are fucking alive.

But there is definite beauty here, in lights and empty shot glosses, broken glasses and lipstick smudge, cum-stained lips and ripped jeans: _alive_ and _raw_ and _hearts_ beating fervent and searing and excited beats. (but not as cliché as bodies seeking release)

Kurosaki knows the place and detests the place, but his thoughts are tired and bored bored bored at the off-white walls of his office and dark rooms of his home, they seek a new angle, and its new subject –Ms. Kuchiki– reminds him of hell fire and fresh snow and a kitten seeking something. So in dark jean pants and fitted white polo and bright head, he sits on a bar stool.

There is some loud music, but he does not hear it nor understand it. (it probably rhymes with something like: I have a giant cock just like your giant tits)

"Join us."

He glances very briefly to his left, a girl in red hair–woman, maybe. Whatever the fuck.

He answers automatically, "what join those lying pieces of shit you're dancing with and those pretentious little fucks dressed as you?"

He offers a small smile at her, charming and melting. (somehow, it reminds of how Ms. Kuchiki nonverbally tells people to: _come fuck me of if you can_.)

The girl marches out pouting and looking pointedly scandalized. He doesn't give a fuck.

She's not Ms. Kuchiki.

.

.

.

There are plenty of differences between happy, lazy afternoon sex and late night, vigorous bar fucking, Ms. Kuchiki seems to like neither, he internally debates, wondering about in the bayside. 1 am and the club _almost_ bored him to death. A bottle on hand.

The sky is clear and cloudless –all black and no moon, only lamp posts. Bleak. Light pollution sends its regard: fuck you, no stars for you, motherfucker.

And so Ichigo goes down to stare at the seaside instead.

The brighter side, though, is that he sees the ocean waves lazily hugging the shore. Pretty –except for those two shitheads fucking and moaning beside the beach rock not far from his view. The girl has small tits, but not Ms. Kuchiki small –hers were perky and plump and he likes putting them on his mouth- this girl's nipples were green. _The fuck_? The male is an old geezer wearing a tie and lopsided eyeglasses. Ichigo thinks he's probably watching a man commit infidelity to his wife.

Funny shit for 1 am. Ichigo leaves when the male screams his orgasm.

1:30 am and street side. Ichigo brings no car. He walks straight and brain still as sharp, he handles his booze _really_ well.

Then, he thinks, if Ms. Kuchiki can handle hers, too. She's too small. Probably not. But then again, she's full of surprises.

1:55 am and still street side. Ichigo reaches the part of the city with skyscrapers and hotels and fancy restaurants.

Maybe, it has been purely coincidence that he sees Ms. Kuchiki at this part of the city.

But whatever it is, Ichigo_ fucking appreciates _it.

Because:

Up on a garden of one the buildings, there she is: a girl in a short dress, a pastel pink cocktail dress. Her hair in a bun pinned by tiny jewels. Her shoes are heeled and she clutches a white purse. And a man in a nice suit in front of her.

The fucking nymph is on a fucking date.

(to fuck another man. right after him)

_Bitch, I never believed your number was 3_. And they have an arrangement.

Ichigo throws the bottle that he's holding and speeds up to the second floor where she is. (it's a hotel and no one actually come up to him) _He's furious_. He opens his phone, searching for her number, and momentarily decides against it, he figures Ms. Kuchiki will probably never give her real number away so easily, but he tries the number anyway.

He writes to her: "go on, I'll watch you fuck him."


	17. Chapter 17

warning: ooc and language and themes

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

Ichigo furiously types on his phone: _go on, i'll watch you fuck him_. Only half intending it, there is, of course, a kind of curious excitement in wanting to see her writhing and knowing the difference between another man and him. Who fucks better – simply put.

Then, it sent.

Ms. Kuchiki is the plague – the very, very bad kind.

Ichigo stops walking towards the garden, he'll never catch Ms. Kuchiki. He watches her step inside a mirrored elevator from the outdoor hotel garden and looks at her phone – he smirks victoriously at this. Another man is with her, tall and black-haired and regal.

.

.

.

Ms. Kuchiki expects no less from Dr. Kurosaki, all his complexities and instability and volatility and persistence and audacity, they are warped, took the form of a man – all muscled and testosterone and handsome and ego.

Everything – his persistence, all of it, atrocious, even the grave won't keep him.

"Even the grave won't keep you," she tells him softly, over the phone.

\- all sealed and cemented shut, the motherfucker would rise smirking and ready to take another kingdom. But then, even in grave, in hell actually, who's to say he won't fuck satan's whores?

"Heh, it won't." Dr. Kurosaki knows it too, "It'll spit me out whole and naked, you know. I'll probably be angry, but I'll be excited, and thrilled. Ms. Kuchiki, I'll be very fucking thrilled. And I'll come looking for you." He tells her honestly, over the phone.

The point, Ms. Kuchiki considers very well, the point is that Dr. Kurosaki is every bit as fucked in the head as his clients.

This is a phone call early in the morning.

(follow-up call according to the doctor, something Ms. Kuchiki will _never_ answer. but her brother noticed it vibrating several times, her brother _who_, was born and bred _in business_ and knows the immaculateness of phone calls)

"Your brother?" Dr. Kurosaki guesses from the other line, his tone both speculative and knowing. He refers to the night before.

Ms. Kuchiki does not answer quickly, her gut twisting and her face impassive. She should have known; the little message the night before was very telling.

Dr. Kurosaki takes her silence for a yes. "You're both pretty." He comments then laughs a little.

Over in her place (as of the moment) a hotel room, between her and her brother is a locked bathroom door. Her brother who, she thinks, probably already situated himself in the breakfast table drinking _Fillico_ waiting for her. Her brother who, she thinks, has gray eyes – stormy, stormy eyes.

"So how's the fucking?" Dr. Kurosaki asks casually.

Ms. Kuchiki imagines him standing in his own bathroom, fresh off the shower and in front of the sink and tying a towel around his waist while intensely looking at his reflection on a round mirror and balancing his phone between his left ear and shoulder, _terribly_ unapologetic about everything he says and does and thinks.

"With your brother, I mean."

But Ms. Kuchiki will not accept, she did not like how he speaks about her brother, she did not like how it came from him, too vulgar.

"I – do not speak that way-"

"Of what? Your brother's dick?" Dr. Kurosaki mocks from the other side, he hopes to be mean and provoke her.

Ms. Kuchiki keeps her lips pursed. She will not. The desire to cut the doctor's throat felt like fire on her veins. Such vulgarity, how dare he.

"M' already high on everybody's shit list, I'll say what I want." He mocks further, laughingly, "who else knows the Kuchiki siblings secretly fuck in one of their private floors _in_ one of their hotels?"

Ms. Kuchiki almost tells him: it isn't like that.

There are certain matters owed to family, to bloodline first before to anyone else. _And_, only she and her brother have the very same blood. Loyalty, admiration, and devotion, to the family _first_.

Only: she and her brother have the very same blood.

They are bound by something deeper than blood, it isn't a choice either, Ms. Kuchiki knows, Dr. Kurosaki probably doesn't know.

"I figured you would want to talk about it, because, well, you are under my therapeutic care?"

Ms. Kuchiki remains in her quartz tub, bubbles and freesia petals around her, her white wine untouched. The whole of the wall on her left is dedicated to windows, and behind those are the skies turning powder blue.

"It's Wednesday, you know, Ms. Kuchiki, appointment with me." Dr. Kurosaki reminds her, standing in front of his sink and staring at his reflection. A towel wrapped around his waist.

She ignored him for at least three Wednesdays before.

"I'll see you today at 4 pm?"

Ms. Kuchiki turns off her phone.

* * *

a/n: sometimes i'm blind.


	18. Chapter 18

ooc and themes

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

His sister grew but still _so_ _small_. His hands could span her waist and her height barely reaching his chest. Perhaps, she would always be small in built, lithe, and supple. He has _limited_ – a word used by being humbly so – knowledge in poetry and metaphors, but he is sure there is no night to describe her_. _

He never graced any magazines, never made it to socialites' list of eligible bachelors because he's simply _not there_ to be photographed and talked about and torn apart by people who have too much time and too much wealth but are too shallow. But there is no accounting for gossips and stares and gasps he receives on his way up to his office – which is stark and black and minimal.

Mr. Kuchiki is a banker. Something about being a _chief_. But the word is grossly misused now. Many simple-minded, talentless _children_ hold the title. He does not wish to be associated them. _Little men, _how they are, sitting on kitchen bar stool behind executive desk. Mr. Kuchiki, still somewhat young at 36, is not trying to achieve anything for the good of the public, only the perfection of what he pursues. And in the pursuance, had succeeded in separating himself off the little men.

So of course, perfection includes his sister.

She doesn't go where he cannot follow. That, in itself, is his sister's obedience to him.

At first, Mr. Kuchiki cannot look. He uttered thousand times to himself: I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. But this is denial of the guilty, refusal of the verdict he knew he so deserved. His eyes had sinned already – because committing sin is not slightly, not by degree of percentage, sinning is not only by a bit, it's one did or one did not. His eyes had sinned, his hands and body – in question, were yet to sin, but he had already.

Only if it were a question of degree, he might have let it go.

Because sinning is not limited to a body part, Hamurabi cannot gauge his eyes out to rid him of all those sins; by his code, separating Mr. Kuchiki off his body is not enough. Mr. Kuchiki's soul is already damaged.

There is a word he uses _very_ sparingly, most objects today do not merit that word, there are many things Mr. Kuchiki would _never_ call beautiful.

But if anything, there is this memory. Old and red and beautiful. It's of his sister, back when he was a boy on the edge of manhood trying to be a dapper, and his sister, still pink on the cheek but had stopped carrying her rabbit plush toy.

It's of his grandfather, too, and their manor – from a childhood long, long, long ago – located at the foot of mountain. The manor made good for sakura-viewing during hanami and it's where the winters were silvery white and pleasant and stars were closer during nights.

She was learning to dance guided by their grandfather. Their grandfather bowed a little and had one hand held aloft for her, only a little lower, and one hand on his back, as if inviting a lady to dance only she was smaller. His elder smiled gently to his sister, who, was wearing a cherry red dress; garbed in all the blooming polish of a young lady.

She had taken his hand, and was swaying with the piano notes slowly, was a little unsure of her steps, of the direction but their grandfather smiled reassuringly.

He could not forget, did not forget, that he was peeking by the hinges of the door a servant had left. He did not forget, how the piece of wood moved and revealed him. He could not forget, how they looked at him and how he expected his grandfather to scold him something with along the lines of Kuchiki males are not scruffy nor clumsy. He did not forget that his grandfather did no such thing and his sister chuckled a bit. He could not forget how his grandfather let go of his sister and turned to him and suggested coolly, "_ah, a boy with appropriate height. Perhaps, you could help your sister practice_?"

He did not forget how his sister looked at him, already pretty in her youngness and he momentarily dreaded her future and _boys_, and smiled meekly. He could not forget about he was just a boy and there were things he did not understand yet. He did not forget how his grandfather reached to him and ushered him towards his sister and placed his hand on her waist. He could not forget how there felt like something raw and afresh in looking at his sister.

He could not forget, did not forget, how the first heartbeat felt like.

.

What is to say after that? Only there is trouble separating family and what constitutes a family.

Mr. Kuchiki both loved and hated his sister and himself and it changed nothing. There is that pressure around the heart, not pleasant but _pushing_. When he looks at her, it's hard to separate the girl she is now and the woman she'll become, from sister to lover. Mr. Kuchiki does not like to imagine, but there are days he fancies she's not a real sister to him and they are open – these are good for daydreams.

* * *

marii: i forgot. thank you.

and anon and guest and guest and guest: thank you.


	19. Chapter 19

language and ooc and themes

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

Google

in-cest - /in,sest/

noun

Sexual relations between people classed as being too closely related to marry each other.

**Incest** – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

The incest taboo is and has been one of the most widespread of all cultural taboos, both in present and in many past …

Inbreeding – Incest in popular culture – Accidental incest – Milk kinship

wiki/incest

27 Shocking True Stories About Incest, Told By The People …

.

.

(12:30 pm)

Dr. Kurosaki is running casual web searches while sitting inside a fast food joint during a very late breakfast, near Ms. Kuchiki's office.

Dr. Kurosaki woke up quite sane today. He called Ms. Kuchiki after his morning shower; he was hoping for some phone sex.

.

.

Google

who teh fuck is kuchiki baykuya ?

No results found

Did you mean _who **the** fuck is kuchiki **byakuya**?_

.

.

Dr Kurosaki bites his burger, teriyaki sauce drips on his chin. He opens another tab, types the correct name in English alphabet, and adds a keyword - lifestyle. The rich, sister-fucker, incest-bastard is bound to appear in whatever lifestyle pages there are.

.

.

Google

kuchiki byakuya lifestyle ?

About 124,000 results (0.59 seconds)

For Her: 10 Reasons Not to Quit That Sucky Desk Job (List of Very Hot Bosses!)

Karakura Style – 2 hours ago

("Oh, please oh fuck," – Dr. Kurosaki, "oh fuck")

…Karakura Style brings you 10 reasons to keep your corporate desk job…keep drinking that sludge coffee… Reason no. 1: Kuchiki Byakuya…unmarried and…shiny hair…Reason no. 5: Jugram Haschwalth…Reason no. 7…

Forget Male Celebrities, These Businessmen Are Better

TheSocialKarakura – 9 hours ago

…our insider journeyed within the corporate world to find the best-looking, R-I-C-H bachelors …want to ride that hot, sleek Blu Inchiostro _Maserati_ and spend a weekend in Bora Bora? then these are the men to stalk…Surprising find…Kuchiki Byakuya…rare sightings… being photographed…a sister you may feel insecure...

.

.

Dr. Kurosaki then thinks they are all _shit_. He clears the search bar and types again.

.

.

Google

kuchiki news karakura ?

About 29,000,000 results (0.28 seconds)

In the news

Kuchiki group invests in medical industry

Karakura Times – 2 days ago

KARAKURA - The spokesperson for Kuchiki Holdings announced the group is planning to build medical facilities…medical tourism further…a number of hospice foundations and mental institutions will be… Head of clan declines to answer…

Kuchiki group ventures to healthcare, builds medical infrastructures

Karakura TODAY – 2 days ago

…acquiring and controlling 70 percent of the airline industry is not enough for the corporate giant…Soon there will be Kuchiki-made MRIs…significant stocks in banking, hotel and real estate development, tech industries…Kuchiki conglomerate prepares to…

.

.

.

Dr. Kurosaki wonders how small Mr. Kuchiki's dick is, to have _so much_ to compensate it with.

.

.

.

Google

kuchiki residence where ?

About 400,000 results (0.58 seconds)

worldofarchi – bloom manor

_World of Architecture_ lists the Kuchiki clan's 2-floor traditional yet modern main residence in northern Karakura as solid, groundbreaking work of…lacquered wood…one of the many…the best of…

.

.

.

The following results show the Kuchiki clan properties – listing a Mediterranean manor house, the most expensive apartment in Tangier, Morocco, a house-research facility hybrid within the mountains of Azerbaijan, 19 assets in East Asia, and 23 other properties, houses, and farms in 14 different European and other western cities he can't quite remember (and probably pronounce).

(after that, Dr. Kurosaki did not feel like counting Kuchiki-owned cars, private jets, and all other possessions)

In all modesty, Dr. Kurosaki owns a nice home in a decent neighborhood and a unit in a high-rise tower within the city and a car and affords to have dinner in a casual brasserie every night and treat his sisters to lunch every Sunday, an easy lifestyle for a doctor – of course nothing of the exclusive sort the Kuchikis have.

Still, if it's a question of compensating for something, Dr. Kurosaki has fewer possessions but has a bigger dick.

.

.

.

(1:59 pm)

Dr. Kurosaki leans back, thinking: considering the _sheer_ expanse of the Kuchiki siblings' world, how come little, _tight_ Ms. Kuchiki found her way on his office doorstep?

.

.

.

Dr. Kurosaki reaches for the chipped, coffee-stained mug and drinks from it, tasting the bitter, strong coffee, his eyes fixed on the dirty clock hanging above the doors, it read 2:30 pm.

The sun bled white and searing this morning, blinding at the hours of 7 am to 11 am. And during the same hours, Dr. Kurosaki was in his consultation room furiously finalizing the draft for Ms. Kuchiki's goal and psycho-treatment plan _finally_, highlighting notes and observations he needed to expand, rethinking his initial diagnosis of her, and thanking colleagues from far cities.

_Also_ this morning, he completed his research into the Kuchikis' ancestral mental history. By afternoon, his searches were only to understand the social value and standing the current Kuchiki head has – if he were to fall.

He had, so to speak, graduated from small observations and brief, ambush sessions to an actual, probable trail – her sister-fucker of a brother.

(there are brief moments in which he manages his sanity well)

Dr. Kurosaki quickly stacks his notes putting them inside his leather briefcase, pausing at faded photographs of the pretty faces of past Kuchiki clan members and red markers indicating their condition but only briefly, before he checks his phone for his reminder.

Of course, he'll bring himself to Ms. Kuchiki for her appointment.

He has his white coat with him, folded over one elbow – it's official business, after all.

.

.

.

At 10 minutes before 3 pm, Dr. Kurosaki is riding the mirrored elevator. He is not alone, one primed, well-dress woman with him – prettier and more straightforward than any desperate hooker at 2 am.

.

At 7 minutes before 3 pm, Dr. Kurosaki just confirmed that Ms. Kuchiki is inside her room (standard-issue corner office with tall-ass windows), and he sits impatiently on the singular leather seat by the corner.

He had never been here before; it's not a Kuchiki-owned tower.

.

At 3 minutes before 3 pm, he got into an argument with her assistant something about a prior commitment and all sorts of important shit busy people do-

.

.

.

Ms. Kuchiki knows the commotion he's making outside her doors, all 80 floors of her office building probably know: her heart does an angry skipped beat.

.

.

.

At 3:00 pm, Dr. Kurosaki storms in, angrily kicking open Ms. Kuchiki's office doors and slamming it in her assistant's face but not before tossing her his medical license.

Dr. Kurosaki, very tall and already wearing his white coat, pauses and looks around. Her office is like her; small, cold, lined with glass windows – modern, artful, secretive, and ominous.

There's a very large office desk, clear glass supported by ornate metal sculptures, 2 matching tasteful canvass paintings hanging on the wall to her right, a glass bookcase, there are no family pictures, a black Cleopatra sofa at the far corner, and a leather chair directly facing her desk. And there's her, staring passively at him, strikingly pretty and cold and sculpted from marble – unmoving. She's wearing a very fitted dress that reminds him of their first meeting.

However, Dr. Kurosaki wastes no time.

"Ms. Kuchiki, I went through your family records," He tells her hurriedly. He _is_ in a hurry, there's gnawing in his chest, he did not exactly like what he found out.

He discreetly checks to see if the door is locked before turning to her and walking straight to the unoccupied leather seat, tossing his briefcase to the larger seat at the corner.

"Family history. You know, hereditary factors. I know, not accurate indicators," Dr. Kurosaki explains, "we can't discredit them but we can't rely on them fully. But sometimes they count, and in your case, they certainly do."

Dr. Kurosaki angles the chair so it could directly face her then sits uninvited.

"You Kuchikis are a pretty bunch – trademark dark hair and I don't know, glamorous and shit. Pretty fucking unstable, too."

The doctor takes her cup of coffee, feels its temperature, and takes the cup away from her. He eyes Ms. Kuchiki, still coldly staring at him. It is not acquired, muses Dr. Kurosaki, the ability to strike down people using a glance is inane with the Kuchikis.

"Like the most recent one, your exiled uncle living in Tel Aviv – violent husband to your mute aunt scarred and disabled from severe domestic abuse…don't you think?"

Ms. Kuchiki is yet to acknowledge his existence or that he's talking to her about her family's obscure secrets or that he took her cup of latte. But Dr. Kurosaki already expects no less, he arrogantly sips from her cup.

Dr. Kurosaki tells her seriously after a long moment, quite fiercely actually, "You have a fuck-load of mental shit running in your veins, Ms. Kuchiki."

When there is still no reaction from her, Dr. Kurosaki continues, "Your family has 12 counts of suicide since the 30s. That's unusually very high coming from 3 generations. And fuck, I know 9 of them are hidden from the public. 4 are currently diagnosed with clinical depression, and 1 is bipolar but she died 3 years ago.

"In the spring of '54, the older of the twin – your granddad's sisters, was categorized under paranoid schizophrenia following a festival, and held for seclusion in fear of public shame. The younger twin soon followed with the same diagnosis."

"Your second cousin, undoubtedly antisocial – agreed by 3 clinicians upon diagnosis – on meds and thought to be "recuperating" but actually involved in drug trafficking in Belfast – I know, I read his indictment released last year. He's currently in a coma, shot in the head, trauma caused bleeding in midbrain but the fucker still lives. Your family keeps him secretly in a local hospital far from media. No DNR order in place."

Ms. Kuchiki, throughout all these, stays passive, as if she'd have more fun getting her fingers smashed. He is correct in all counts.

Then comes the subject of her immediate family. Strangely, Dr. Kurosaki takes a lighter tone. "Some thought the family stains will stop when your grandfather took the headship – and it did. Decent, hardworking man – established almost half of the family's current fortunes, from banking and shit, died peacefully in his sleep while you were vacationing on your summer home. You were 10."

"Your parents, decent, very decent, mother's a pianist, died from heart failure, you were 6. Father's a…well, what the fuck? As if there'd be any other professional options for Kuchiki males, a businessman. He started the airline business. He could be a pilot, has interest in heights, died of it, too. You were 7." Dr. Kurosaki's tone holds no judgement, remains neutral, until he mentions her brother, "and now the children, _crowned_ prince and princess. You, and your brother – sister-fucker and current head of family, fucking each other."

Ms. Kuchiki remains unflinching.

"Just so you know, I hate your brother," Dr. Kurosaki adds, "_fuck him_." And chuckles darkly at the little joke: _no, no, not you of course_.

"I _am_ jealous," Dr. Kurosaki tells her straight, no hint of boyish tinge in him, this is a _man _talking to her, "Here's what I'm going to do when I finally get the chance to see him, I'd tell him to fuck off because he can't marry you, and then beat him." It's not an empty threat, Ms. Kuchiki thinks.

"Though fuck your brother to hell and back, I still give a shit about him. I suspect you two act simply from being out of proper guidance, and your brother from some misplaced sense of overprotectiveness and admiration, and you never grew up seeing a proper _man_ figure, you think fucking and loving and respecting your brother are the same."

"And _Ms. Kuchiki_, did you know? There is a record of confirmed Kuchiki family incest in '49, brother and sister, too – cousins of your father. And another suspected case in '63 – brother and sister again, both committed suicide in the same year, kind of confirms it. So, uhh, you two are not very special. Your clan raconteur must be going batshit insane-"

"_My family_," Ms. Kuchiki finally speaks, "my family, just how, how – _what_ do you intend me to feel after telling me all these?"

"Shame." Dr. Kurosaki deadpans, "shame, Ms. Kuchiki, and fear. Quite frankly, if I can make you feel anything, I'd be very fucking glad. You know, nymphos don't feel much other than-"

"That is not therapeutic." Ms. Kuchiki counters.

"Ms. Kuchiki, I intend to match your crazy with my crazy. You'll be alright."

Ms. Kuchiki sorts through her recalls of him. She knew of course, the dangers of seeking outside treatments. But once then, the burnt piece of paper bearing his consultation details seemed promising and brilliant and all forms of rays of light.

The way he turns to her, the attention, all of it – as if he'd recognized her voice even if he's deaf, as if he can pinpoint her from a sea of crowd even if he's blind. Now, she wonders if he'll drive them both even worse.

* * *

a/n: i don't mean drama, nas _is_ slice of life.

louchette: spanish? no problem. go ahead. thank you.


	20. Chapter 20

*my fault. sorry. multiple file-sync apps on multiple devices. wrong ch. can't find real ch. i'm very blind. had to rewrite.

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

So, after:

"_You_ probably think," Dr. Kurosaki starts, letting the fallout of knowing her family's roots settle, "it's going to drive you even worse -" then he smiles briefly and lightly and disarming - not a smirk - it could have been sincere, he finishes, " - having me."

Dr. Kurosaki leans back and enjoys the warmer afternoon sunshine filtering from the glass windows onto him.

They are situated high, among the city skyscrapers, and he finds the view almost welcoming compared to the mundane gray and clinical white walls that greet him daily.

Ms. Kuchiki, of course, is a fixture adorning her own stylish office - some polished, petite, radiant statue sitting _so, so poised_ on her leather swivel chair and with her legs crossed. She wears a white dress today, tight and elegant and fitted he's not sure how she's breathing, and a pair of very red pumps. She forgoes any jewelry, and she lets her long hair down - its tips reach her waist.

Unlike her - all pretty and is probably forcing herself to gracefully stew in her own storm - Dr. Kurosaki slouches easily on his seat in front of her, one long leg over another, broad shoulders and arms relaxed.

"On the contrary Ms. Kuchiki, that's not gonna happen," Dr. Kurosaki promises her, harnessing a different tone - confident and sincere, "and it's exactly because you have me."

His white doctor's coat is a bit wrinkled and is deeply contrasted to the severe black of his slacks and to the brightness of his orange hair.

"...Ms. Kuchiki?" Dr. Kurosaki prods, head tilted to the side. Getting an answer or a reaction from her required hard labor.

Ms. Kuchiki thinks carefully. Before, she has given him not much thought, his advances - though bothersome in their persistence - were relatively easy to brush. Dr. Kurosaki is a dedicated nuisance of a man.

Dr. Kurosaki is too intruding for a professional and too forceful and too brash for a person, and _he just won't let go_, Ms. Kuchiki supposes. Somehow, his antics, his very loud and aggressive demeanor would get her brother's attention, and there would be no point in seeking his treatment. Ms. Kuchiki has known of course, has decided weeks before, that this is why she couldn't welcome him.

Ms. Kuchiki looks at the institution logo on his coat, then at him - who is currently taking a sip from her coffee cup.

She ponders: what could possibly stop Dr. Kurosaki from pursuing her? Could she, perhaps, pull some string and have him fired? It won't work, some sure part of her brain voices, even that won't stop him - so much of his actions told her enough, even his medical license revocation won't stop him, he'll come and come and come and come - even the grave won't stop him.

"The shit about your family is something I have to consider, you know? Standard medical procedure - assessment, you understand?" He tells her, putting her cup on a nearby side table.

Ms. Kuchiki thinks, then, if, if shame is what he's looking for -

"Ms. Kuchiki, there's no way you actually have friends," Dr. Kurosaki states, standing up, putting his hands on his pant pockets, and walking around. On matters like this, he makes sure he's heard clearly - he likes to be understood without question, and there is no suggestion of mockery in his voice, "or at least real friends, I doubt it."

Dr. Kurosaki rounds on Ms. Kuchiki's space, "so by digging shit on your family - the unit closest to you and if you actually give a fuck, you'd feel something - and I want to know if you are capable of actually feeling," he pauses at the edge of her table, his eyes sweeping her table for anything familial - she hasn't got a single family picture on display - not even the brother she fucks, he slants her a look, "and I want to know them - shame, inadequacy or whatever the fuck, if you will."

Ms. Kuchiki stares back at him - which he meets. Her lack of expression to his absurd advances doesn't really suggest a lack of feeling thereof. They are there, she does feel things, Dr. Kurosaki believes. He resumes his walking.

Just as much, her office talks of her. It's got little attachment to her and back, even the way she dresses and the way she devastates her opponent in the courtroom with cold, surgical dismantling and little regard after, and her indifference to the admiration people around her have for her.

This is not an odd thing to observe, the doctor surmises, only certain things truly matter for Ms. Kuchiki - only exclusive, secretive things. His eyes land at the collection of books lining her glass bookcase, curiously, some writings belonged to Thatcher and Nin.

Then Dr. Kurosaki turns around, Ms. Kuchiki's eyes never left him. Uninvited, he goes straight to her table, casually approaches her chair, and reaches for the armrest on either side, as if trapping her in that little space.

Ms. Kuchiki is really too beautiful. Leaning down, Dr. Kurosaki asks her, "so, did you feel anything?"

Ms. Kuchiki only looks up at him with her defiant, purple eyes. Holding his gaze, she relaxes on her chair, softly breathing, and still refusing to answer.

Dr. Kurosaki, of course, recognizes the challenge and discord in her. So, natural and coy and almost intimately, he leans lower, coaxing and caressing, "won't you tell me?"

Dr. Kurosaki's eyes are amber, not brown or hazel, or anything else, Ms. Kuchiki lingers on them for a moment as if noticing them for the first time. In all truth, she remembers how it's like to fuck Dr. Kurosaki - he's got a mad streak, he body covers her easily, his hands span her waist, he barely understands restraint, passion and power thrums beneath his muscles - it's true, there is something deeply attractive about Dr. Kurosaki.

But Ms. Kuchiki is careful, meeting him has been a mistake, she could not - will never - he has to stop - Dr. Kurosaki, her brother -

"I assume you don't do casual Fridays," Dr. Kurosaki suddenly comments, startling her.

Ms. Kuchiki feels pressure on her forearms; Dr. Kurosaki grips her. She watches as his eyes settle on the swell of her breast.

"Cavalli? I don't know shit, Balenciaga?" he asks referring to her dress, glancing at her, as if he really cares. Nonetheless, "Valentino," she answers calmly.

"Heh, so you don't mind losing a Valentino?" Ms. Kuchiki hears the playfulness in his voice. She could have moved - his grip on her forearms wasn't tight.

Ms. Kuchiki sitting on her black leather chair makes for a striking image, "I don't always think of fucking you, you know, I think of _you_, too." Dr. Kurosaki tells her quite honestly.

* * *

a/n: it's full incest. untrustworthy characters, hence, no first name use.

guest and guest and hopelessromantic, thank you very much! han-ichiruki, you know my 2014-2015 writer self actually confuses me, but thank you. vine, i'm sorry. shirayuki992, ahh, thank you for the compliments.


	21. Chapter 21

why, shirayuki992? wanna see? im ok writing b/r. guest (margecamins - is this u?) and guest, thats lovely thank u ೭੧(❛▿❛✿)੭೨. anon and aorizuki - ahh yes, thank u.

lilith is nxt, vine.

nymph and satyr

by appleschan

* * *

Ms. Kuchiki believes in love. No matter how abstract it is. In theory and in practice, love is sincere, it is unquestionable, it is endless, it is honest, it has no escape, it demands unfailing loyalty and absolute obedience, it includes fear, and it does not end well with death. Ms. Kuchiki loves her brother.

And _love_, after all, like justice, _is blind_. These things - Dr. Kurosaki does not get, has not learned.

There is something of Mr. Kuchiki into Ms. Kuchiki; he has taught her to walk, to speak to people, look at people. There is Mr. Kuchiki in the way Ms. Kuchiki primly eats, even her penmanship resembles his, and her tone emulates him. Mr. Kuchiki has taught her love, after all, along with everything.

The leather chair is too big for her, as it is made for tall men with good shoulders - men like her brother and , but it makes her seem big, an authority, she relaxes nonetheless.

Dr. Kurosaki is bent over her, intensely staring and coaxing her to reply, "Ms. Kuchiki?" he says once more.

He has turned them slightly sideways, the afternoon summer sunrays then land on them. Ms. Kuchiki observes, the sun is good on him regardless of his obscene hair color, it lits him in honeygold and makes him appear gentler, like human - like he isn't some deranged man with obsessive tendencies and questionable thinking.

Conversely, the sun is not good on her brother and on her. The rays make them pale and clash with their hair. They dress superbly for high occasions, refined and neat and cold and dark and sophisticated, the sun counters that, makes them unwelcome with its merriness and charming laughs and brightness.

Yet another reason to stop seeing Dr. Kurosaki - he does not understand her world nor belonged in it.

(in all truth - the truest one - lying deep, deep, deep: she does not fully understand her world either despite her concrete learnings on love - like it has no escape and is endless. It's a world based on _love_ \- her brother has said, it is unfailing, it will never have _cracks_, he said. _Still_, Ms. Kuchiki stepped inside Dr. Kurosaki's clinic)

Dr. Kurosaki doesn't put much pressure on her forearms, his grip is firm but it allows her room for movement.

Ms. Kuchiki considers his confession - was it that? - then decides it _should_ mean little to her. What does it matter that some deranged man thinks of her? It should mean little, her mind reinforces.

Before, she does not think much of others' opinion, of females, colleagues, the people she dismantles in court, her assistants, of most males, they will all come to pass. She has come to know firmly there is only her brother and he is enough and he'll be a constant.

(if only Dr. Kurosaki will come to pass quietly, too)

Ms. Kuchiki surmises the doctor must revel in his position - as if trapping her, like he has power over her.

Ms. Kuchiki, carefully and gracefully, lifts her right arm. She meets little resistance from Dr. Kurosaki, he loosens his left grip and lets her. Ms. Kuchiki touches his face.

It must have surprised him when she reached out, Ms. Kuchiki thinks. Her palm and fingers are cool and smooth, resting on his cheek.

Ms. Kuchiki feels the sudden and hard tension on his head and tightening on his spine, nevertheless, Dr. Kurosaki maintains his form, half-crouching, leaning down on her, and pinning her with his stare.

Then, Ms. Kuchiki, too beautiful up close, slowly caresses his face with her fingertips.

Considering his confession, Ms. Kuchiki asks softly, "How come?" she sounds teasing, "I understand...you have a fiancee…?" she trails, remembering the doctor's profile on her desk, the morning when she first visited him.

Dr. Kurosaki casually scoffs, "I don't even remember her fucking face," he says unabashed, then affirms, "fucking really."

"And anyway," he continues, sneers this time, but Ms. Kuchiki's hand on his cheek is proving to be a distraction - it feels soothing, "does that matter? That didn't stop you from fucking me the first time?" He recalls Ms. Kuchiki fucked him good, too, she's a better fuck.

"Hmm," Ms. Kuchiki appears to remember too, but she continues stroking his cheeks, "I assume you have broken up?"

"Yeah," he purrs, slowly getting lightheaded, feeling her palm on his cheek. Dr. Kurosaki rarely submits, let alone purr.

On another time, he may consider it embarrassing. But there is a terrible pull towards Ms. Kuchiki.

He smells the perfume on her wrist, she doesn't take to wearing strong, sweet scent like most women do, she prefers lighter scents, flowery but fresh.

Dr. Kurosaki's grip on her other arm is slacking, and so is the strength in his knees.

He could (would) not differentiate between a stroke on his cheek or a stroke on his hard dick, does it matter? Ms. Kuchiki's touch is different - that's all he knows. There is power there.

"Hm, that's too bad," Ms. Kuchiki comments quietly, genuinely sounding disappointed.

Ms. Kuchiki needs Dr. Kurosaki to obsess over others to get rid of him. She continues her stroking, he has his left hand over her palm, occasionally landing a light kiss on her wrist.

"What is she like?" It is easy to ask, easy to manipulate Dr. Kurosaki when he submits easily like a puppy caving to its owner's petting, "tell me."

Bringing out his former fiancee, she hopes, would remind him there are other women. Surely, he harbors at least one affectionate memory from the other girl.

It's a long moment before Dr. Kurosaki answers, "nothing like you," he says obediently, a bit vague.

Dr. Kurosaki closes his eyes, his other hand is on Ms. Kuchiki's ankle, sliding towards her thigh. He's descended on the floor, but his knees don't feel the threads of her white plush carpet, and Ms. Kuchiki's palm is still on his cheek, and he's got a hard dick.

"Hm," But Ms. Kuchiki takes that as a positive, aware of his hand, "then why leave…?"

"She likes it in the ass, and I never fucked her in the ass ever."

"I see," Ms. Kuchiki nods in understanding, strangely however, there is no trace of hatred in his voice. It could be a good sign, so she threads lightly, "do you still want to see her-? Would you...like to see her again?"

Ms. Kuchiki lightly strokes his cheek, then subsequently brings her other hand to cup his face and run her fingertips on his hair. Her face is close to his. He is broadly handsome, and his breathing has become labored.

"Stop trying to turn me away, will you?" Dr. Kurosaki tells her slowly, "no shit is going to ever fucking work."

Ms. Kuchiki suddenly stops stroking his face, he is now leveled lower than her.

"And please, don't seduce me and tell me to fuck other women," Dr. Kurosaki says sharply, opening his eyes - they are dark amber and very clear and only reflective of her.

Ms. Kuchiki tries to withdraw, but Dr. Kurosaki holds her in place - with both of her palms on his face.

"Shit won't work because...wait, do you even know how you affect men?" he asks, a light, amused smirk playing on the side of his face.

When Ms. Kuchiki has no answer, Dr. Kurosaki pushes on, "what, your asshat brother never let you go outside your mansion long enough to see others…? Was the two other men you fucked some manservants?"

Then he toys with the more probable idea, "or is it because your brother is cautious of men like _me_?"

Ms. Kuchiki's face is back to passivity, Dr. Kurosaki is back to being hateful again.

"Look at me properly, Ms. Kuchiki," he commands, low.

Her eyes are hard, how dare he make such commands. She does, however, let her eyes do look at him properly.

_Ms. Kuchiki has him_ -

"Do you see now, Ms. Kuchiki? I can't leave you," Dr. Kurosaki says, there is a harsh sound coming from his chest, he is half-croaking from elation and realization; she has him down and she doesn't even know, he continues, "because this is where you reduce men to -"

"- kneeling for you."


End file.
